When he heard the phone ring, he slung a towel around his waist and went to catch his early morning wake-up call. “What’s up, man? I beat you up this morning.”
“You actually woke up on your own? What’s on your mind this morning?” Vlad asked, Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, peppering his dialect.
“Nothing new, just the how and the why. Same old questions, no new answers, but that’s a discussion for another time. Where are you and whose bed are you crawling out of this early?” Kevin asked, his voice now full of false sternness.
“Her name’s Kismet Oscaletta Evans. Can you believe her parents named her that? I met her when I had a run over on Broad Street, last week. She works for the post office. She has four kids, but never have I seen such well-behaved children. No daddy in the picture.”
“Has she cooked for you yet?” Vladimir Chekhov was like a brother to Kevin. They’d met while freshmen in college. Whenever Kevin needed comic relief, he sought out or phoned Vlad. The man didn’t discriminate, regardless of children, age, ethnic group, or financial situation. A woman only had to have two qualifications, a high aptitude for cooking and the ability to screw him senseless after he ate whatever she cooked for him.
“Kev, man, last night she placed before me lamb, not just any lamb, but lamb slow roasted for twelve hours. After she sent the kids to her mother’s house up the street, the girl put me on my back and then put me to sleep! That’s why you beat me up this morning.”
Kevin got dressed while talking to Vlad, putting on a pair of paint-splattered, frayed jeans. He pulled on a battered T-shirt as he thought over what he needed to accomplish that morning. “Vlad, tell me again your reasoning behind having a woman cook for you and having sex immediately after?” Kevin was constantly amazed at the way Vlad’s mind worked. The way he justified his bold actions as an adult, with things that had happened to him as a child.
Vlad started where he always did. “When I was growing up, food was scarce. You never knew where your next meal was coming from. My mom busted her butt working, covering the rent, but I got tired of eating canned tomato soup, cereal with water instead of milk, and cups of noodles. I promised myself I would never go hungry again. Why do you want to hear about my childhood so early in the morning?”
“I find your justification mind-boggling. What are you going to do when your dirt catches up to you?”
“If a woman wants to cook for me, I let her.” Vlad just kept talking. “I didn’t lose my virginity until was twenty-years-old. I was just so damn shy and I know you remember how I used to stutter. I couldn’t get close to a female without her thinking I belonged in special education with the way I was sweating and gyrating! Don’t get me wrong…I don’t blame women. I would have turned and walked the other way, too. I had date rape/stalker written all over me.
“Now’s the time to make up for all I’ve missed. Thank God for Bruce Willis recommending acting classes and a retainer. If not, I would be living in my mother’s basement in Brighton Beach, jerking off to Maxim magazine. How old were you, your first time?”
“I already told you, fifteen,” Kevin answered.
“Exactly. You have five years more expertise than me. I have a lot to make up for. Which means I may have to double up. Can you imagine a threesome? Two women and me, an appetizer, an entrée…and dessert! You wouldn’t hear from me for a week. I would be supine, comatose.”
Once Vlad got started, it was hard to stop him.
“When a woman hears I’m an artist, a sculptor masquerading as a bike messenger, panties just disappear! They all want to reenact the scene from the movie Ghost, a movie I’ve never seen. But I have seen Striptease.”
“Do you plan on getting any sculpting done today?”
“As a matter of fact, after I leave Consuela’s house—she’s cooking me breakfast this morning—I plan on hitting the studio. Then a late lunch with Suzanne and dinner with Faith. My day is jammed, but I always make time for art. How’s the painting going? I can hear you moving furniture and laying tarp.”
“The painting is coming along great, but I’m just waiting to see if one more guest I invited will attend. She has got me stumped. Hopefully you’ll meet her at the show.”
“So it’s a woman?”
“Of course it’s a woman. Do you honestly think I would be sweating the arrival of some dude?”
“I thought you meant a critic.”
“No, I have that well in hand. I don’t paint for the approval of critics, and I never will. I know it may sound egotistical, but I paint for myself. That way I never compromise for profit or recognition.”
“So the person you’re waiting for is in no way a professional associate?”
Kevin instantly knew he’d said too much. He never sat around waiting for a response, and if anyone knew that, Vlad did. Damn, he should have stuck to ridiculing his friend’s life. “Her name’s Ashlyn Farrell, and I met her while she was on a photo shoot in Love Park. Right after you left.”
“The Ashlyn Farrell from Time magazine, National Geographic, the Economist, Frontline, and any number of others?” Vlad asked in astonishment.
“One and the same.”
“Have you lost your mind? Ashlyn Farrell is no easy lay. She’s not one of your nude model groupies, or weedhead skater chicks, or arm candy video models!” Vlad informed him, pressing the issue.
“I’m well aware of that, but I don’t believe she’s out of my league.” Kevin hated to admit it, but his pride hurt.
“She’s so out of your league. Besides, she’s white, Mr. Black Power.” Vlad never hesitated, just kept up a barrage of sarcastic commentary. “You can chalk that invitation up as a loss.”
“She’s not white.”
“She sure looks white in her picture.” Vlad didn’t admit that it was a black-and-white photo. He knew Ashlyn was biracial, but he very rarely got the upper hand with Kevin, and he didn’t want to let it go. Kevin, aka Mister Black Power, could be quite sensitive at times.
“Look, you know black folk come in varying hues. Besides, I want her so bad, it really wouldn’t matter.” Kevin stunned his friend speechless, but only momentarily.
“What, what? I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I’m going to give you a pass and never mention this again. You can thank me after the show or after you wake up out of this trance.”
Since when did race not matter to Kevin? In the seven years Vlad had known him Kevin had been selective. Kevin believed only a discriminating few could identify with where he came from. It was a topic they had discussed many times.
For Vlad, the world was full of too many beautiful women for him to deny himself. The color of a woman’s skin was the last thing on his mind. Culinary savvy and the ability to ride nice….Anyone who listened to Jay knew the rest.
“I have tons more work to do. I’ll talk to you later.” Kevin quickly hung up. He suddenly realized Ashlyn’s race truly didn’t matter to him. Should he feel guilty? He prided himself on being an intelligent, successful, talented black man who dated non-European women, and he’d never crossed that line. But for her, he would.
What was it about her that drew him? Was it her eyes or her hips? No, that was simply the physical. He’d felt as if he knew her even before actually conversing with her.
He followed her work over the years, knew she never discussed her family or personal relationships with the media. He knew she traveled to distant places, and he also knew critics placed her high above fellow photojournalists. It was a cantankerous place to be. Colleagues could easily ostracize you, and that lofty perch was dangerous to tumble from and even harder to live up to.
He knew, because he was in the same category. One field of employment always created another, one dedicated to analyzing, criticizing, and judging. Kevin got angry at the thought of people profiting from a creation he birthed. He had no problem with people having opinions, but for them to profit just from criticizing him because he was brave enough to attempt something different appalled him.
Kevin sipped his espresso, the elixir chasing away the remaining early morning cobwebs. He knew in another five minutes his father would call, making sure he was up. Following that, he would receive a call from his baby brother, Aaron, a med student at Temple University School of Medicine. The men of his family now resided in three different places, but they still spoke at least four days a week. He knew that his father and brother worried about him leaving again. It had taken him six years to return the last time. He’d needed to get his mind right, as the old folks say.
Kevin gazed around his home. He lived on the twentieth floor, of an old refurbished pre-war building. The two-storied windows he painted in front of soared from floor to ceiling. The light was phenomenal.
He had also purchased the property adjacent him, because in the future he planned on knocking down the wall and creating one massive space.
Kevin wasn’t one for clutter, so the clean lines of modern décor suited him well. He enjoyed lightness, so the walls were painted a brilliant winter white on purpose. His furniture consisted of a straight-line gray Blu Dot One Night Stand sofa, two indigo cocoon low-back chairs flanking a ripple-square coffee table. A Rue Oberkampf lounge rug covered dark stained hard wood floors. The image woven into the wool rug was of a leafless winter tree, the limbs stretching across the fabric.
The color and brightness came from the art on the walls. Not his own, but pieces from Jean Michel-Basquait, Jan Saudek, and his favorite piece was one by Jacob Lawrence. Most people’s eyes went immediately to the sensual photos by Saudek and Saudkova. Those came in handy, especially when the fairer sex deemed it time to come up for cocktails. Jean Michel-Basquait’s life greatly resembled Kevin’s. They both started as young graffiti artists, except Kevin had the opportunity to continue his work, while Basquait’s life was cut short. Even though their styles eventually ventured in different directions, the start was the same. Kevin had learned much from Basquait’s life. He refused to be a pawn in a time of guilt and political correctness. A man’s works should speak for themselves and stand alone.
Kevin rinsed out his cup and moved to his work area. The first light of the sun warmed his face. It was the perfect time of day for painting. He hurried his steps, his bare feet slapping against the chilly wooden floor. Kevin placed his unfinished canvas on top of the paint-splattered tarp. He lifted the drape covering it and critically viewed the piece entitled Who Is to Say What Is Authentic. His work fell under the category of abstract expressionism, a method that allowed him free expression, but also allowed the viewer to have his own interpretation. In his humble opinion each person who experienced anything creative, be it a painting, sculpture, music, or the written word should walk away with a different belief than the person who saw, read, or heard it before them.
His canvas showed subtle slashes of color, building to broad brush strokes. Some would see colossal chaos, others a meticulous methodology. Kevin wasn’t concerned with that, just as long as they felt something. He wanted his work to be thought-provoking. Whatever a person’s norm, he wanted it to have the opposite effect. He heard his phone ring. His father and brother had never let him down, never given up on him, even when he gave up on himself and disappointed them. He kept telling himself that was the past, but he wondered if a man could ever outrun his past. He let the voice mail pick up. If Kevin didn’t answer, they knew he was awake and already working.
Kevin painted through lunch, never realizing the passage of time. The phone rang a few more times, but he never bothered to answer. He also ignored the banging at his front door. He never allowed distractions to come between him and his one true passion. As he worked, his mind played over and over the kiss he’d shared with Ashlyn. She’d tasted of honey, as if she’d rubbed it across her lips, then licked it away. Her eyes had lightened when she was aroused, her cheeks had become flushed, and her heartbeat had accelerated, causing her chest to rapidly rise and fall.
She’d pretended not to like his forthrightness, but he could tell it made her curious. A man had probably never approached her in that way. She’d called him on the handling of the entire situation, but she hadn’t been able to hide the tiny smile threatening to erupt into genuine laughter. When was the last time she’d laughed? On her travels, she’d no doubt witnessed just as much as Kevin had seen and lived. Laughter was hard to come by after that.
The sun shifted, alerting Kevin to the time. He began to clean up, deciding to stop by Aaron’s apartment, which was a three-bedroom apartment shared by at least eight people. The medical school bills were kicking his little brother’s ass. Their father had paid for undergrad, and every once in a while Aaron let them help out financially. Kevin took him to dinner two nights a week, brought groceries by, lost bets on sports they played and watched. It was all a way of helping Aaron out financially without calling attention to it.
He’d bought a new phone and a laptop, and told Aaron he needed to get rid of the old ones. Aaron had received a week-old phone and a three-day-old computer. He needed to find a way to give Aaron large lump sums of money; he might have to go so far as to make up a bogus scholarship. Men and their pride. At times it got in the way. Kevin just wanted to see his brother succeed. Nothing should get in the way of his success.
Kevin took extra time to meticulously clean and store his brushes. He was an organizational fanatic. Everything belonged in a specific place. Little did he know that Ashlyn was the complete opposite.
CHAPTER THREE
“Fancy, baby, if you dig up one more flower…I’m going to send you to a shelter!” Ashlyn loved puttering around in her garden, but it seemed lately all she did was replant what Fancy dug up.
“I’m going to take a broom to you if you don’t stop.” Fancy ignored her. She just threw her tail in the air, lifted her head, and strolled through the French doors, on her way to her favorite spot in front of the fireplace. Ashlyn threw soil at her retreating back. Two weeks had passed since she picked Fancy up from doggie daycare, and she still behaved as if Ashlyn had abandoned her in a raging flood.
Ashlyn washed her hands at the outside hose and decided to lounge in her hammock. She didn’t get the opportunity to lounge for long, as her phone started ringing. She knew before she looked at the number who was calling. It was her best friend, Makayla Williams. Ashlyn had been avoiding talking to her. Makayla could sense intrigue even over the phone, and she was determined today, as it was the third time she called.
“Hello, Makayla.”
“Why have you been avoiding my calls? I know you haven’t been that damn busy.”
“The shoot in Philadelphia took longer than I expected, and I’ve been busy making arrangements for a colleague to take my place for a photo essay on Fripp Island. The residents are working diligently to keep the beach safe for loggerhead turtles and their nests!”
Of course Makayla wasn’t fooled. “Sweetie, anytime you go into your ‘we are the world’ sermon I know you’re hiding something. So you might as well spill it right now. Don’t let the four hours separating us fool you. You know firsthand I’m not afraid to make a road trip.” Makayla lived in Savannah.
Ashlyn laughed, trying to buy herself more time. “There’s nothing to tell, and Makayla, I saw you three weeks ago, before I left for Philadelphia.”
“Ever since you got back you’ve been acting strange. What is it? Did you have a one-night stand? You know I’m a free spirit. I wouldn’t judge you for that, just as long as you used protection.”
“Makayla, I didn’t have a one-night stand. Your mind always jumps to sex. You’re probably getting enough for the both of us.”
“I want you to come back to Savannah and get to know Sheppard.” Sheppard was the man whom Makayla was dating.
“How are things progressing with him? Has he asked you to church yet?” Ashlyn knew one sure-fire way to get Makayla out of her business, and that was mentioning organized religion.
Makayla took the bait. “Girl, you have gone too far, but I realize you’re tryin
g to change the subject. Oh, and I sent you some items from the boutique. I know you hate for me to shop for you, but accept the pieces, please. I sent you a vintage Vivienne Westwood puff skirt and two pairs of low-rise skinny jeans, which I can’t wear, because I muffin over the top. It’s a mini-low fat muffin, but it’s still a muffin.”
The minute Makayla started talking about clothes, there was no stopping her. She truly believed in retail therapy. “I also sent you a pair of knit stovepipe pants to show off your bountiful backside…if you got it, flaunt it. Plus two linen shirts and one beautiful braided V-neck maxi dress, which you can go braless with because you have those little itty-bitty…you know the rest.” She added the last part quickly. “Also one pair of hidden platform heels,” she said before hanging up.
Why was she hiding from a woman she considered a sister, Ashlyn wondered? They’d met right after the two moved to Atlanta. Ashlyn arrived two months ahead of her. She’d placed an ad in a college newspaper for a roommate, and Makayla was the first to call. Makayla arrived after a seventeen-hour bus trip, by herself, from Baltimore.
Their pasts were very different, but they both took up residence in a roach—and mice-infested apartment above a liquor store. So, why was she hiding from Makayla? The truth had yet to surface, or perhaps she was suppressing it.
Avoiding Makayla was bigger than hiding her encounter with Kevin. Lately, she’d been feeling disconnected from everything she held true. On top of it all, Kevin was constantly in her thoughts. So far, she hadn’t looked Kevin up on the internet.
The doorbell rang and Fancy started barking, as if she were excited by the visitor. When Ashlyn found her spinning in circles by the front door, she looked through the peephole and smiled when she saw the person on the other side. Ashlyn hurriedly opened the door and embraced her favorite cousin, Dawn. “When did you get in?”
Painted Passion Page 3
